


Things Like This (Don't Happen To People Like Us)

by popfly



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Reel 1D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Thing You Do AU.</p>
<p>
  <i>If they really were on a rollercoaster, the five of them, Harry’s pretty sure they’d all throw their hands up and scream as the cart dropped, and then laugh together while it coasted through the dip at the bottom and started rising up the other side.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Like This (Don't Happen To People Like Us)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: 60. That Thing You Do  
> Harry as 'Shades'. Really just want the boys in a band called the 1Ders.
> 
> This is for Erin, I hope it lives up to her expectations. I would not have finished this on time without Lacey. Sally was a champ, thanks for Britpicking and beta-reading!

Harry keeps a drum kit in the garage. He hasn’t played - in front of people - for years. But during the day, when he’s home from the bakery and his mum is still at work he goes out and settles his knees around the snare, sliding a pair of sticks out of their bag, and bangs around.

Sometimes he’ll put on music (usually something hard and rocking, something that’ll get his blood pumping and sweat rolling down his temples) and play along. He’s usually only got an hour or so before the neighbors start coming home, but it’s enough to leave him breathless, muscles loose, hair damp over his forehead.

He misses being in a band, the synchronicity of it, the chemistry. Everyone with their own instruments, their own parts, coming together to make something like magic. The thrum and energy of a crowd, dancing or singing along. The buzz of a good set.

Practicing his rudiments in the garage doesn’t quite live up to that, but it’s better than nothing.

Working in a bakery, living at home, and only playing drums in his garage isn’t exactly the dream he’d had for himself when he’d been younger, but it’s still not bad.

He tries to shake up his routine now and then, keep himself out of the doldrums, and today’s “shake up” involves busing it halfway across town for breakfast, to an American diner that promises the crispiest potatoes in all of London. He sets himself up at the counter, because the twisty stools remind him of drum thrones, and blows across a cup of tea while he reads the paper.

Not a bad way to start his day off at all.

He catches sight of them out of the corner of his eye, a group of lads jostling each other with their elbows as they spill through the door, laughing a little too loudly for the early hour. A few customers glance up at them, the older man to Harry’s right giving a little cough of disapproval, as they barrel past, sliding into a round booth in the corner.

They’re old mates of Harry’s, or a couple of them are, at least. They’d been in a band together before, when he was fresh out of sixth form and still wandering about with his sticks sticking out of his back pocket like he thought that made him cool. They’re a band again, the two Harry knows and a couple of other lads, playing pubs around the city. Harry hasn’t seen them yet, but he’s heard they’re not bad.

They don’t notice Harry, hunched at the counter in his black jumper with his hair in his face, and he can’t decide if he wants to keep it that way or not. Before he can make up his mind someone’s leaning over his shoulder, slapping at the counter.

“Can we get a couple more menus, love?” the someone calls, and grins at the waitress behind the counter before rounding on Harry.

“Don’t think we didn’t see you sitting here, you wanker.”

“Niall,” Harry says, leaning back slightly to give Niall more room. He’s grinning, cap perched backwards on his head, and throws the waitress a wink when she places menus in his hand.

“Ta,” he says to the waitress, and then slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Come say hello to the lads.”

“Oh, I’ve got food coming,” Harry starts, but Niall tuts, like he’ll put up a fuss, and tugs at him.

“Just a mo’, Harry, your eggs’ll keep.”

Harry goes, leaving his paper next to his tea and sliding off his stool, following Niall to the booth where the guys are all jostling for space around two menus, crowing with delight when Niall delivers the extras.

“Look who I found,” Niall says, and a couple of them look up with grins, calling hellos. “Harry, this is Liam, don’t think you’ve met, he’s our bass player. And you remember the rest of the lads, yeah?”

Harry does. Josh, his replacement, has a look on his face like Harry’s there to challenge his territory, and Harry gives him an awkward wave. Zayn, the lead singer, is quiet and considering as always, arm thrown around the shoulder of his boyfriend Louis. “Hey,” he says, and Louis gives him a genuine smile in return, leaning into Zayn’s side.

“Louis here’s a real member of the band now, did you know?” Niall asks, and slides into his spot in the booth. Harry’s left standing, wishing he had his tea so he’d have something do with his hands.

“Oh?” he asks, because it seems polite.

“Keyboard,” Louis says, and ducks a glance at Zayn, who is absorbed in his menu.

“That’s great,” Harry says, and takes a step backwards. “It really is lovely to see all of you, but,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder as if to say, “food, over there,” and follows up with another smile.

“Yeah, yeah, get back to your breakfast,” Niall says, and flaps his menu at Harry, waving him off.

Harry lingers over his potatoes, because they really are the crispiest he’s ever had, and when he pays the bill and collects his paper, he turns to find the booth Niall and company had been occupying empty.

They’re out on the street when Harry pushes through the glass door of the diner, shoving each other around in front of a clunky looking old van, Niall in the middle of the fray with his head thrown back, laughing. Louis and Zayn are leaning back against the van’s sliding door, and Zayn’s shaking his head, while Liam and Josh try to get each other in headlocks.

He waves in their general direction as he starts towards his stop, and ignore the yelps and shouts behind him as he walks away.

 

The bakery is swamped the next day, because it’s a Monday, and apparently all of Primrose Hill is grumpy and in need of strong tea and buttery dough. Harry understands all too well, and tries to be friendly but quiet as he dishes up croissants and scones. He’s ferrying a tray of freshly baked muffins from the kitchen to the front of the shop when someone on the other side of the display clears their throat, and Harry says, “What can I get you?” without even looking up.

“A new drummer?”

Harry lifts his head, peers over the display. It’s definitely Niall, not just some random customer with a brogue, and he looks sheepish, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Harry wracks his brain for a biscuit that sounds like what he’d thought Niall had said, but comes up empty, says, “What?”

Niall looks around, but there’s no line at the till, and leans closer over the display. “Drum for us.”

Harry shakes his head, drops the last muffin in place, and straightens, tucking the tray under his arm. “What are you talking about, what about Josh?”

“Remember yesterday how we were all goofing off outside the diner? Wrestling and that, when you were leaving?” Harry nods, and Niall scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Wanker broke his arm.”

“Oh my god,” Harry says, and he feels terrible about it, but he has to laugh. Niall joins in, looking almost relieved, and then darts his eyes over Harry’s shoulder when the swinging door to the kitchen flaps open, the baker stepping out.

“Biscuits are done,” she calls, and Harry nods back at her, smiling innocently when she narrows her eyes at him, and then goes back to Niall.

“Buy a cake,” Harry says, and Niall startles. “Make it two. And I’ll think about it.”

“Come on, mate, I know you’re missing being in a band - “

“You don’t know that.”

“‘Course I do. Why wouldn’t you? Look, we can practice tonight if you say yes. We have a gig this weekend, a house party for some uni blokes. They’re charging at the door, say they’ll pay us in more than just beer. How can you turn that down?”

Harry chews the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to turn it down. But he likes to see Niall sweat a little, and if he leaves without buying something after taking up so much of Harry’s time Barbara will be mad.

“Two cakes, and I’ll show up to practice.”

Niall grumbles, but reaches for his wallet, and Harry boxes the cakes up, ties them with twine, even makes the bows even. He presents them to Niall, who slaps a fiver in Harry’s outstretched palm, lip curled. “I’ll text you the address, same number?”

“Yeah.”

He ducks out, glaring down at the cake boxes, and Harry’s grinning to himself when Barbara comes back out into the shop.

“Harry! Biscuits!”

 

The practice space seems to be someone’s double garage, because of course it is. Harry cradles his snare drum in his arms, not trusting anyone to have tuned theirs the way he likes, and ducks under the half closed door.

There’s soundproofing foam coating the walls, and the band is set up in one half of the space, the drum kit tucked up next to the van. Zayn is cross legged on the floor, scribbling in a notebook while Niall perches in a chair nearby, strumming on his guitar. Liam and Louis are playing a card game at his feet, Liam’s bass propped up against the kick drum.

Harry clears his throat, and four pairs of eyes lift to his, making him feel awkward under their scrutiny. “Erm, hey,” he says, and Niall grins over his guitar.

“Harry’s here, can we play now?” he says, and Liam and Louis laugh.

“Settle down, Horan, let him get set up,” Zayn says, and rises to his feet in a move so graceful Harry feels a jolt of jealousy, almost tumbling over his own feet whilst merely standing there. He turns his feet in, overlaps the toes of his worn out boots, and hunches his shoulders when Zayn gives him a clap on the back. “Thanks for coming,” he says, and Harry nods, lifts his snare like an offering.

“Shall I?”

Zayn waves at the drum kit, and everyone moves around the garage, getting their instruments and tuning, playing snippets of songs and running scales to warm up their voices. Seems like everyone sings, and Harry hopes his voice hasn’t left him entirely. Other than the shower, his garage while practicing, and the bakery in the early mornings, he doesn’t sing much at all.

Though he supposes that is still quite a bit of singing. It’s just different when you’re the only one around to hear.

Zayn brings over his notebook, where he’d been drawing drum tabs in thick black lines and dots, holds it under Harry’s nose while he replaces Josh’s snare with his own and adjusts the drum throne.

“We want to play these,” Zayn says, flipping pages. He must’ve been drawing tabs for hours, all day maybe. Harry boggles a little. He’s used to just playing, having always made up his own parts by trial and error or playing along by ear. “Don’t be intimidated, Josh kept his parts pretty simple. But his fills … “

Zayn trails off, and catches Liam’s eyes where he’d been watching from the corner of the garage. They share a grin, and then Zayn seems to come back to himself.

“His fills were pretty extraordinary.”

“I’ll try my best,” Harry says, and Zayn nods, lets the notebook fall into Harry’s lap, and takes a place between Liam and Louis, who’s behind his keyboard with his feet planted wide, fingers already dancing over the keys.

“Let’s run through a low one first, yeah, give him the idea of it?” Zayn says, and the boys all nod, Niall taking his pick from between his teeth and letting it hover over his guitar strings. He counts off, which Harry assumes will be his job, and they start in on a song, a slow meandering thing with pretty, simple harmonies.

Harry beats on his thighs with the tips of his fingers, steps down on the dusty concrete floor of the garage when he imagines there will be bass drum kicks or high hat hits. It’s a good song, but it’s too slow, Harry thinks. Easy to learn at least, and he’s able to keep up the second time through without even glancing down at Zayn’s notebook. He’s almost bored, tapping lightly at the toms and bobbing his head along.

There are a couple more slow songs, and a couple of good fast ones that Harry loves, filling in stroke rolls where he thinks they’ll sound best, and everyone looks impressed by the time they’ve run through the set twice, Harry comfortable enough already to start working on his harmonies.

“Wow,” Liam says, and Zayn looks like he wants to echo the sentiment.

“Josh would’ve taken a week to learn those songs,” Louis says, and Harry grins.

“Josh who?” Niall asks, making everyone laugh.

Harry expects to pack up his snare and head out as soon as they’re done, but Louis insists on a parting game of cards, and they sit in a circle while he deals, Niall snagging them all beers from the small fridge against the wall. They’re two hands in when Zayn says, “We still need a name,” eliciting a groan from the circle.

“We have a name,” Niall says, and Louis just shakes his head, lips pressed together. Liam looks around at the group like he’s not sure he has a say.

“We had a name. With Josh. We’re different now, new,” Zayn says, and lays down a card. “Need a new name for that.”

Harry looks at Niall, questioning, and Niall rolls his eyes. “Fine, what do you think we should be called then?”

Zayn thinks as they play, every now and then leaning over to scribble in his notebook, hold it up for everyone to see.

“The Heardsmen?” Niall asks, the eyeroll evident in his voice. Zayn shrugs, and underlines the “ea.”

“It’s a play on words.”

“Not a very good one, mate.”

Zayn slaps the notebook back down in his lap, scratches through the name a little roughly. Louis puts a placating hand between his shoulders and leans over. “The ‘ea’ though, I think you’re onto something,” he says, and looks around at the rest of them. “It’s like the Beatles, yeah, they used the ‘ea’ like beat.”

Harry rearranges his cards, pulls one out to add to the pile. “So what, we’re looking for a name where we can spell it slightly different and have it be a pun?”

“Ooh, or maybe we could have one of them names with a number or a weird pound sign or something in it. Pound like drums?” Liam says, and Niall snorts.

“You all are idiots,” he says, taking his turn.

Something pops into Harry’s head, a silly name with a number, and he kind of chuckles before he says, “Like The Wonders, but with a number one instead of the w-o-n.”

Niall laughs, but Zayn writes it out, holds the notebook up. “1Ders,” it says, in big black letters. It looks silly but it kind of clicks with Harry, and he tilts his head.

“Oh,” he says, and Liam nods.

“I like it.”

“Come on,” Niall interjects, and points at it. “It looks like the One-dee-ers.”

“I think people will get it,” Louis says, and plucks Zayn’s marker out of his fingers, circles it. “I vote yes.”

Niall is the only no, and therefore outvoted, and he mutters to himself all through the rest of their game and as they’re leaving, making their way towards the tube.

“You’re lucky you’re a good drummer, Harry, because you’re crap at sorting out band names,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pocket as he walks. Harry looks back at the garage, at Louis helping Zayn pack up, and Louis glances up, catches Harry’s eye.

They share an awkward wave, and Harry smiles to himself as he and Niall turn the corner.

 

The party is in full swing by the time Harry gets his kit set up, tucked in a corner of the large living room, a blanket spread out as a makeshift stage. He does a quick, informal soundcheck, makes sure nothing needs tightening or retuning from bouncing around in the back of Zayn’s beat up van, and then sits twirling his sticks and looking out at the garden, full of people spilling out from the house.

It’s a crappy, run-down place, typical of uni students. Four guys live there together, and the carpet stains and general state of the furniture scattered about the place suggests they party as much as they study, if not more. They’re nice enough blokes, setting aside a fiver from the cover every now and then to pay the band, and they’re letting them drink free as well. Harry’s nursing a beer, because he hates playing gigs drunk, but Niall’s three sheets to the wind and dancing in a knot of people to the music playing on the stereo.

Zayn is in the van, warming up his voice, apparently, and Liam is with him, tuning his bass. Louis is propped against the wall of the hallway, last in line for the loo, looking bored. Harry doesn’t have to pee, but he kind of wants to talk to Louis, so he gets in line.

“Hey,” he says, and Louis grins.

“Hey yourself. This line hasn’t moved in a couple of minutes, so make yourself comfortable.”

Harry does, leaning his shoulder next to Louis’s and sipping from his beer. It’s lukewarm, which doesn’t make much of a difference in the taste when the beer’s this low quality, but he grimaces a little anyway.

“Premium stuff, yeah?” Louis says, and sips from his own cup. The liquid in his is brown, not yellow, and Harry leans forward to sniff it. Coke and …

“Where’d you get vodka?”

Louis shrugs, smirks like he’s got a secret, then laughs. “Zayn has a flask with him. If you’re good tonight maybe he’ll share.”

It sounds so suggestive, Harry flushes slightly. Louis isn’t paying attention, because he hadn’t been flirting at all, why would he, when he’s so happy with Zayn. He’d meant the gig, of course, and Harry shakes his head. He shouldn’t be thinking suggestive things about his bandmate anyway, especially when they’re dating another bandmate.

“Someone is definitely fucking in there,” Louis says, and Harry refocuses on him with a slow blink.

“What?”

“The loo. Only two reasons to take so long, and I’ve got a feeling it’s the naughty one this time.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, cheeks still warm. “I haven’t got to go that badly anyway.”

“Then why did you get in the queue?” Louis asks, and Harry has no good reason.

“I, uh, figured by the time it was my turn I would,” he says, and Louis nods.

“Way it’s going, you might.”

Louis crows triumphantly when the door opens a few minutes later and a guy and a girl come tumbling out, a chorus of jeers and sarcastic applause greeting them. The guy takes a wobbly bow and the girl shoves him down the hallway, and the line moves much faster after that.

They’re asked to start when the crowd is starting to get raucous and bored of the mp3s being played, and Harry takes his place behind the drum kit, twirls his sticks. Zayn had written out a set list for each of them, a silly measure in a space this small, but Harry tucks his under one foot of his hi-hat stand where he can see it. They play a fast one first, and then another, and the crowd seems into it enough. They’re laughing, and dancing a little, but there’s a lot of chatter at the back of the room that Harry can hear even behind the drums.

The first slow one comes up, and Harry gets an idea, counts them off fast, and starts playing at twice the tempo they’d rehearsed the song at. He bobs his head, ignoring Zayn’s frantic shouts, and the disjointed start while Liam catches up. The whole crowd is into it now, bobbing their heads and jumping around. Harry feels a rush of adrenaline as the band syncs up, catches up to the pace Harry’s setting, and their harmonies are so on point Harry grins, pounds the drums a little harder.

His last cymbal hit rings out over the crowd for a split second before the cheers roll in, the whole crowd clapping and yelling, and Harry grins so hard he thinks his cheeks might actually split. Zayn is spinning on him, mouth in an angry line, Louis coming out from behind his keyboard to put a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.

“What the hell, Harry, that’s supposed to be a ballad,” Zayn shouts, and Harry can barely hear him over the crowd.

“Zayn,” Louis says, but Zayn shakes him off.

“We practiced it slow, what were you thinking?”

Harry could argue, could point out the near-deafening cheers of the party, but Niall is stepping up on the other side, tugging Zayn’s elbow. “It sounded awesome, man, calm down. Let’s just play the next one,” he says, and Zayn reluctantly turns, strums the first chord of the next song, and Niall flashes Harry a thumbs up behind Zayn’s back.

The rest of the set is awesome, and Harry packs up his gear with a smile on his face, sweat rolling down his back and shoulders slightly sore. He definitely wants a beer now, to soak in the praise from party goers before he has to haul his stuff out to the van.

A cup appears in front of him as if by magic, and he looks up at the person holding it out.

“Great set,” Louis says, and Harry takes the cup, sips at the drink. It’s definitely vodka and coke, not beer, but it’s ice cold and goes down smooth.

“Thanks. Not sure Zayn agrees with you.”

“Eh, he’ll get over it. Especially since we’ve just been offered another paying gig next weekend. At an actual pub.”

Harry blinks up at him, while Louis breaks out in a grin.

“You were right by the way,” Louis says, kicking Harry’s shin with the toe of his trainer. “That song sounded better fast.” He wanders off before Harry can reply, and he swigs more of his drink, lets the vodka warm his chest, before he finishes packing up.

 

The pub is even dingier than the house they’d played had been, but it’s fairly crowded and the beer is much better quality. They get a couple of tickets for free drinks, and they have a pretty good PA system with an actual sound guy. It’s a step up from most places Harry’s played before, and he feels good when he’s setting up his kit.

“Josh wouldn’t ever show me how all this goes together.”

Harry looks up at Louis, leaning over his floor tom and grinning, holding out a beer by the bottle neck. Harry takes it and drinks, watches Louis do the same.

“Most people aren’t terribly interested in it,” Harry says, tightening a wing nut.

“I am.”

Harry sits back on his heels, looks up again. “Alright. Come around here.”

Louis does, dropping to his knees next to Harry. He’s so serious Harry has to grin, pointing at all the places where the kit joins together.

He lets Louis put the hi-hat together, adding the tambourine on top, and showing him where Harry likes it positioned. He’s a good student, actually interested, which Harry doesn’t quite understand. Everyone likes a drummer, Harry’s learned, but most people aren’t interested in the actual mechanics of being one.

“It’s pretty intricate,” Louis says, adjusting the feet on the hi-hat again, making sure it’s just right.

“It is. I like that part of it, the routine, the details,” Harry says, and pushes up from the floor, surveys their work. “Keeps me focused.”

Louis is still crouched down, fiddling with something, and when he straightens up he tilts his head back to look up at Harry from the floor, and it makes Harry’s skin tingle. He takes a step back, gulps his beer.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, gruff, and steps back again. “For helping me.”

Louis grins, still kneeling, and then presses his palms to his knees, unfolds and stands in one fluid movement. “Thanks for showing me how,” he responds, and reaches for his beer bottle, clinks it against Harry’s. He leaves Harry standing there, flushed warm, watching Louis make his way across the bar to Zayn, who’d been bending close to Liam, chatting.

Harry drinks more than he usually would before they play, but he’s not drunk, just loose enough to play around a little more with his fills. The crowd is into it, dancing and cheering, and they’re drunker than Harry, so it all works out. They plan on playing their former ballad - even Zayn had ended up grudgingly agreeing that it sounded better fast - last, but after their third song someone yells out a request for it, and they’re so floored they oblige.

Harry counts it out, tapping his sticks together, and they rip into it, the harmonies flawless and the crowd a jumping, surging mass in front of the stage. It’s amazing, and it makes Harry’s blood pump hot and fast, skin prickling with electricity.

After their set they stay onstage, unplugging and packing up, and Harry gets started on the task of breaking down his kit. He’s buzzing from the set and the few beers he’d had before, so when he gets approached by a pretty girl in a black tank top, blonde hair sweeping over her shoulders, he lets his grin go crooked as he looks up at her.

“That was a great set,” she says, bold but still nervous, cocking her hips but twisting her fingers in front of herself.

“Thanks,” Harry replies, and she smiles.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Isn’t that my line?”

She laughs, and it’s a cute laugh, and he’d missed this part of being in a band, too. The attention, from girls and boys, the way people crowd the stage after to try to talk to anyone with an instrument. It’s shallow, sure, but it still feels nice.

“You can buy me a drink if you’d like,” she says, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

He finishes packing up and buys her a drink, flirts a little while they lean against the bar, and then kisses her cheek when it’s time to pack up. He ignores the disappointment on her face, doesn’t ask for her number, and leaves her behind while he stacks his drums in the back of Zayn’s van and then climbs in to squeeze next to Niall on the one bench seat.

“Thought for sure you’d be going home with someone,” Niall says, his elbow sharp in Harry’s side.

“Nah,” he says, and sees Louis’s shoulders tense in the front seat. “She was cute, but I wasn’t interested.”

“Seemed it,” Niall says, and Louis’s head turns, his profile sharp with the neon of the pub’s sign backlighting it.

“She was keen on Zayn, too,” Louis says, and puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Heard her talking in line for the loo. Thought I’d have to throw down.”

Zayn laughs, leans over and gives Louis a peck on the lips. “Not into groupies, babe.”

“Neither am I,” Harry says, just to make sure everyone is clear. Niall laughs, spreads his arms out on the back of the seat, one around Harry and one around Liam.

“I could be. But they’re never into me.”

Everyone awws, and Niall laughs again, and Zayn pulls away from the pub.

 

They play a few more gigs, gain a few more fans, get approached by a few more girls. It feels like every time they play the energy ramps up more, they get more cohesive as a band, they sound better. Tighter.

After a gig in a semi-swanky pub in a semi-swanky neighbourhood they’re lounging around a table, beers getting warm in their sweaty hands, laughing at Niall’s piss poor attempts at pulling a girl who is clearly trying to get to Liam, when a guy approaches the table, tucking himself between Zayn and Louis.

He looks familiar, grinning around at them and grabbing a fistful of the snack mix in a basket in the middle of the table. “Hey guys,” he says, and tosses a few pretzels into his mouth. “Where’s your merch table?”

They all look around at each other, and Harry speaks first. “We, uh, we don’t have any merch.”

“What? No t-shirts or CDs or anything?”

Harry shakes his head and Zayn leans forward. “We will though,” he says. “At the next gig. So make sure you show up.”

“Awesome. Where is it?”

Zayn gives him the name of the pub they’re playing the next weekend, and then goes back to counting the cash they’d gotten from the cover charge while the rest of the band goggles at him.

“How are we going to have merch by the next gig?” Louis asks, and Zayn shrugs.

“I’ll figure it out.”

They record their CD inside the house that Zayn, Louis, and Niall share, dragging the soundproofing in from the garage and setting up the drums in the living room. Niall takes his guitar and a mic into the loo, and Zayn and Louis take the kitchen. There aren’t any tiled spaces left, so Liam tucks into a closet, using his phone as a flashlight.

Harry puts the big headphones on so he can hear everyone, says, “Ready?” He gets a chorus of “yes” and counts them off.

Zayn has dabbled in mixing on his laptop, fiddling with his bootleg copy of the sound recording program, so he polishes the tracks up after they’re all laid down. It sounds pretty decent in the end, good enough to burn and label and sell for a fiver at their gigs, at least.

Niall takes care of the t-shirts, designing a simple logo in Photoshop (also bootlegged, of course) and using a little of the money they’ve made at gigs to have a few printed on cheap white shirts.

They pack it all up in a plastic bin and lug it along with them to their next gig, along with a shoebox to keep the money in, and ask a friend of Liam’s to man the table while they play.

When they check in after their set the table is surrounded by clamoring people, and Liam’s friend looks frazzled with two fistfuls of cash.

 

Harry’s stacking biscuits in the display case the next day, still warm from the oven and sticky against his fingers, when someone on the other side of the counter clears their throat. He looks up and sees a guy staring, head tilted like he’s trying to figure Harry out, and Harry holds the tray in front of himself, suddenly self-conscious.

“You’re the drummer, yeah?” the guy asks, pointing a long finger in Harry’s direction. “Of that band, I just saw them, you - “ he breaks off and hums a few notes of their song, the former ballad that everyone seems to love. “That’s your song, yeah?”

Harry nods, finally catching up to the abruptly started conversation. “Yeah, that’s me. Or us, I guess. And yes, I am the drummer.”

“Great.” The guy grins, a crooked, cocky quirk of his mouth. He reaches a hand over the display, bracelets tinkling against the glass. “I’m Grimmy. Nick Grimshaw, but everyone calls me Grimmy.”

“Harry. Everyone calls me Harry.”

Grimmy squeezes his hand, still grinning. Harry can’t tell if the guy’s just a fan or if he’s coming onto Harry. He’s still got his head tilted, studying Harry, wavy brown hair drooping down from a quiff to brush over his forehead. Harry feels a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny but waits the guy out.

“I was just walking by and happened to glance in and see you. I recognized you from your gig the other night. I was hoping to have a chat with you and the rest of your band. Do you think we could set up a meeting?”

“Meeting?” Harry asks, confused. So he’s not hitting on Harry, okay. But his request seems a little formal for a fan.

“I manage some local bands, and I’d like to take you all on as clients. But that’s something we really should discuss with the entire band. When can we get together?”

Harry nearly drops his tray in the fumble to get his phone out of his pocket. Manager! The lads won’t believe it. “I’ll text them right now, see when they’re available.”

“Great. In the meantime I’d love a scone and a cup of tea.”

Grimmy sits at a table in the corner until the rest of the band show up. They’re an interesting group - Liam still in his workout clothes, Zayn in the collared shirt he has to wear to work, Niall looking like he’d just rolled out of bed with half his hair sticking straight out the side of his head. Louis is the only one who looks composed, hair styled perfectly and jeans neatly rolled at the ankle. Harry takes his break and leads them to Grimmy’s table, and they all cluster around it.

“I won’t waste any time since young Harold here has to get back to work.” He smirks at Harry, who furrows his eyebrows at the name. It sounds weirdly familiar coming from Grimmy’s mouth, even though Harry’d cracked the bad joke about not having a nickname. Louis frowns, looking between them, and Harry shrugs. “I picked up a copy of your record and I think it’s wonderful. Like possible hit record wonderful.”

“Hit record,” Niall says, like it’s a dream, and Grimmy nods.

“Absolutely. When you played that - what is it, the ‘chinny chin chin’ one?”

“‘Kiss You’,” Zayn says, and Grimmy snaps his fingers.

“Yeah, that one! The crowd went absolutely mental. I’ve never seen a crowd so into a pub gig before. I knew at that moment that I could help you out. Do you know how to get a song on the radio?”

They all shake their heads, and Harry looks around at four pairs of wide eyes. He’s sure his are the same. Radio play of one of their songs, it’s almost too much to think about.

“I do. And I can guarantee you that within a week I can get ‘Kiss You’ on the radio.” Grimmy reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a folded sheaf of papers. He flattens them on the table and taps them. “Standard management contract. It basically says if I don’t make you money, you can fire me without any penalties. I’ve done this with a few local artists, boys, and I’ve made them all money.”

“Can you get us bigger gigs?” Zayn asks, and it’s a great question. Harry loves playing pubs, but he’s always dreamt of bigger venues, bigger crowds.

“Of course I can,” Grimmy scoffs, like it’s no big thing. “All over the UK even, if that’s what you want.”

“We want,” Niall says, and reaches out for the contract. As Grimmy slides it across the table Zayn reaches out his hand to stop him.

“Wait,” he says, and the rest of the lads turn to him. Niall’s mouth is gaping open and even Liam looks surprised. The look on Zayn’s face makes Harry’s heartbeat spike with fear. “I’m not sure about this. Shouldn’t we have someone look it over, make sure we’re not going to get screwed?”

Harry winces, but Grimmy doesn’t look offended at all. He slides the contract back towards himself, out of reach of Niall’s grasping fingers. “That would be perfectly fine, if you wanted.”

“He doesn’t look like he wants to screw us,” Niall says, and Grimmy arches one eyebrow. Harry shoves down the urge to snort at the innuendo, because it’s not the time or place to act like an adolescent. “Why don’t we just read through it quick and if it’s confusing or something then we can have someone look at it.”

Zayn still looks unsure, but Louis puts a hand on his shoulder and reaches the other one out for the contract.

It’s not as complicated as Harry thought it would be, no fine print or four syllable words. It says, very plainly, that it’s Grimmy’s job to get them radio airplay and gigs, and that if he doesn’t, they can get rid of him, no questions asked. It’s a short contract, only a few pages, and by the end of it Harry is convinced that they should sign. They’d be idiots not to.

“I’m just hesitant to sign anything regarding our music,” Zayn says, low like Grimmy can’t hear him across the table. “Right now we have all the control, and I like it that way.”

“It doesn’t say we’d be giving up control of the music, Zayn,” Louis says, soothing. “It just says he’ll help us get more exposure, reach more people.”

Niall breaks after a minute of deliberation and grabs the contract out from under Zayn’s nose. “That’s it, I’m deciding. Where’s the biro, I’m signing.” He takes the biro from Grimmy’s outstretched hand and scrawls his name at the bottom of the last page, then points it in Zayn’s face. “You’re signing,” he says, and then swings the biro in an arc to point at each person in turn. “We’re all signing.”

They obey, even Zayn, and Grimmy smiles, folding the contract up and tucking it back in his pocket.

“Pleasure, lads. Now let me get to work.”

 

Grimmy gets them an opening slot on a show the next weekend, when the original band cancels. The lineup is incredible, and Harry can’t even believe that they’re going to be playing the same stage as these acts, sharing the same backstage, any of it really. It’s so far from where they were a week ago, where Harry was a month ago, that it’s still surreal to him.

They drive out early in the evening, squished into Zayn’s van with their gear and their merch, and keep the radio on as they head towards the venue. Grimmy had mentioned that their song might get played that day, but it hasn’t yet, and they don’t want to miss it.

They’re a few minutes from the venue, Niall dozing against the window and Liam quiet next to Harry’s shoulder, when the DJ says, “And now something new from a local band, ready to get you rocking on this Friday evening. This is ‘Kiss You’ by the 1Ders.”

The opening chords play to stunned silence in the van, and then they all simultaneously freak the fuck out.

Niall jerks awake when Louis shouts, and Zayn careens through a lane of traffic to the side of the road, jabbing his thumb at the hazards and turning to gape at the three boys in the back. Harry is smiling so hard he thinks his cheeks might crack and Liam is practically bouncing out of his seat.

“Holy shit,” Niall says, eyes bugging out of his head. “That’s us. On the radio.” Harry nods, and then Niall is scrambling out of the seat, climbing over Liam’s lap and then Harry’s, clawing at the door handle until it lifts and the door slides open. He tumbles out onto the side of the road and starts jigging, kicking his clean white trainers in the dust, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Louis jumps out after him, door hanging wide open, and grabs his hands, and they jump in a circle, screaming. Cars are honking as they zip by them, and Zayn honks back before diving into the passenger seat and then nearly falling out of the van.

Harry and Liam exchange a look, while the chorus plays around them, and then Harry reaches forward to turn the volume up before getting out, Liam close behind.

“We’re on the radio!” Louis shouts, right in Harry’s face, and Harry grabs him up in a hug, nearly lifting Louis off his feet. Louis’s arms go bone-crunchingly tight around Harry’s shoulders before he lets go, launching himself at Liam next. Harry’s flustered, the song screaming out of the open doors of the van and the boys jumping around him. Niall grabs his hand, and Zayn’s on his other side, and Harry reaches out for Louis, and they all link up, bounce around in a circle and sing at the tops of their lungs.

They’re breathless and a little dusty when the song ends, grinning up at the cloudless, starry sky, squeezing each others sweaty hands. It’s the best Harry’s ever felt in his life.

 

From the best to the worst in one night. The show is a disaster, to put it mildly. Their soundcheck goes fine but when they get on stage to start their set their mics aren’t working. When they get them working there’s a blast of feedback that makes the audience cringe and clap their hands over their ears. Harry knocks over a cymbal when he’s counting off the first song, and then they’re so out of time through the whole first verse half the crowd decides to take a loo break or go out for a smoke, and they come back disinterested, even though the band has gotten everything straightened out and sound fine.

The other bands are nice enough back stage, but it’s clearly pity and not genuine, and Harry drags his drums back out to the van with his shoulders slumped, Louis quiet as he tucks his keyboard stand in next to the stack of cases, quirking his mouth at Harry sympathetically.

“First gig jitters?” he suggests, and Harry supposes that could be it. Even if it’s not their first gig it’s the biggest one they’ve played, and it’s their first that’s not in a pub. Either way it’s an awful feeling to drive away before the show is even over, instead of hanging out in the crowd for the other bands and soaking up the energy and attention.

Grimmy is kind but direct when they conference call him from the garage the next day, where they’ve met up to console each other and maybe run through their set.

“I’ll get something else, maybe between that size venue and the pubs you’re used to. An adjustment type gig, yeah? But don’t fuck it up.”

They all agree, huddled around Zayn’s phone, before hanging up, and then have an excellent practice, boosting their spirits.

The next gig is a little smaller, more familiar, even though the headliner is still a fairly big name. Harry sets up his kit with firm hands and a set to his jaw, determined that they’re going to play stellar and everyone in the crowd will leave remembering their name.

They’re on point, harmonies blending like they’re prerecorded, no sign of nerves in Zayn’s voice or Liam’s fingers on his bass. Harry twirls his sticks and stomps on the pedal of the kick drum, and Niall plays like a demon, pulling out a solo that makes the crowd scream. Louis’s fingers fly over the keyboard and his neck tendons strain as he sings, and afterwards they’re dripping sweat but so satisfied, and there’s a line at the merch table when they troop down to greet their fans.

The next day Grimmy calls Harry and suggests meeting up for lunch, and Harry agrees. He assumes the whole band will be there but when Harry arrives Grimmy is at the table with a man Harry doesn’t know, a dark haired man with calculating eyes and a white shirt so starched it looks like it could stand up on its own. Harry looks around the restaurant, confused, but Grimmy waves him over.

“Harry. This is Simon Cowell. Simon, this is Harry Styles.” Harry shakes Simon’s hand and takes a seat next to Grimmy, questioning him with his eyes. “Simon is from SyCo Records.”

Harry is still confused, folding his hands in his lap while Simon looks him over. Harry feels like he’s being taken apart, and each bit of him is being studied before it’s put back. It’s disconcerting to say the least but Grimmy looks pleased, almost smug, so Harry tries to relax.

“Harry,” Simon says, and even his voice is a little chilling, menacing almost. He gives off an air of power that makes Harry want to shrink in his seat. He doesn’t, keeping his back straight and his shoulders squared. “I’ve heard your record. I want to sign you.”

The words seem to go in one of Harry’s ears and out the other, and he casts a look at Grimmy, trying to get them back, to understand them.

“Harry,” Grimmy says, taking pity on him and leaning forward. “Simon’s label wants to release your record nationally. Major label release.”

“I,” Harry says, and then, “Why?” Because it’s the first thing that pops into his head that feels imperative.

Simon laughs, and a little of the tension Harry’d been feeling eases. “Because it’s good. Really good. Too good for Grimmy here, that’s for sure.”

Grimmy laughs at the insult, like Simon’s just being cheeky even though he looks dead serious under his smarmy smirk.

“SyCo wants to take you on, Harry. They can get you much further than I can. More radio play, national radio play. Bigger, better gigs. A tour, even.” Grimmy puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezes. “Things I can’t get you.”

“But you’re our manager,” Harry says, even as his brain sticks on the word tour. As great as all that sounds they like Grimmy, they trust them. Harry doesn’t trust this Simon fellow and his cold eyes, his smooth voice.

“I know, but I can’t get you as far as Simon can,” Grimmy says. “And that’s okay. This is what I do. I carry a band as far as I can and then let them move on when the time is right.”

“But it’s not even been a month yet,” Harry says, and Grimmy laughs.

“Sometimes the right time comes quickly.”

Simon leans forward, crosses his arms on the table. “If you’re not ready for the big time, Harry, that’s fine. You can stick with Grimmy here and keep playing small venues or noon slots at festivals. No hard feelings.”

“No,” Harry says, because that’s not what he wants. And he doesn’t think that’s what the boys want either. They want bigger, of course they do. “It’s just fast.”

Simon laughs again, more genuine this time, and Harry’s shoulders loosen up just slightly. “That’s how it works sometimes.”

Harry keeps his eye contact, not wavering while Simon stares, and thinks. A tour. “I’ll have to talk to the rest of the band.”

This seems to amuse Simon and Grimmy, who exchange a look. Simon says, “Of course,” and then reaches for a menu, snaps it open. Grimmy grins at Harry, passes him a menu, and Harry stares at the words but doesn’t see them, trying to sort through his thoughts. He orders soup, something simple that will help settle his fluttering stomach, and spoons it into his mouth robotically while Grimmy and Simon chat about the weather and telly.

As soon as the meal is finished Simon says his goodbyes, leaves some notes on the table and shakes their hands, and then he’s gone. Harry watches him go, still dumbstruck, and turns his head slowly when Grimmy chuckles at him.

“Shall we call the rest of the group?”

 

Simon meets up with them at their next gig, comes backstage in another of his pressed white shirts, sunglasses tucked into the front breast pocket. He passes around contracts, thicker than their last ones, and grins like a shark while they sign. They’d already gone over a copy of it with Grimmy, and Zayn had asked all the questions he’d been able to think of, so he’s quiet now, eyes lowered as he hands his contract over to Simon.

“Let’s talk about your name,” Simon says, as he stacks the contracts neatly in his hand. “This 1Ders thing, it’s confusing. Can we simplify it a little. Maybe make it just Wonders, or maybe shorten it to 1D?”

“What would the 1D stand for then?” Niall asks, and Harry’s head snaps up.

“One Direction.”

Five heads swivel towards him and he feels his face heat up. “Since that’s where we’re all going, yeah?” he mumbles, and lifts a hand upwards. “In one direction?”

Louis is grinning, lips pressed together like he’s trying to hide it, but both Zayn and Liam are nodding like it makes perfect sense. Niall gives a crow of laughter and slaps Harry on the back. “I like it, Haz,” he says, and Harry looks to Simon.

He’s got a glint in his eye, and he nods his head once, like that’s that. “Perfect. From now on you’re 1D, or One Direction. And we’re going to need to get you a stylist, find a look for you. You’re nice lads, yeah, and we want you to look it.” He’s still eyeballing Harry, and he tilts his head, considering. “Except maybe you.”

Harry has no idea what to make of that, and he’s even more confused when Simon slides his sunglasses out of his pocket, tosses them to Harry.

“Try those on,” he says, grin sharp, and then turns to go.

 

The tour they were promised comes up quicker than expected when another SyCo artist starts complaining about one of their opening acts and Simon decides to replace them with 1D. They get the call a week before they’re set to leave, and before they know it they’re on a bus - a real life tour bus, with bunks and everything - heading towards the first date of their tour.

Harry is flat out on his back in his bunk, staring at the ceiling and marveling at how quickly everything is going, when Louis’s head pops up between the curtains.

“Found him,” he calls over his shoulder, and soon the other boys are crowding around Louis, four faces smiling at him.

“He’s dwelling,” Zayn says, and Louis reaches out to poke Harry in the side.

“Moping?” Niall suggests, and Liam shakes his head.

“Just thinking,” Harry says, and gets four eye rolls in return.

“Well stop,” Niall says, and Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist, tugs. “Come play video games instead.”

They all crowd onto the one leather sofa in the back of the bus, controllers switching hands smoothly as they play, all five of them a tangle of limbs, cursing at the screen.

Harry thinks if this is what tour is always like, he’s going to love every bit of it.

 

They get to the venue just in time for soundcheck, and pile out of the bus in their joggers and wrinkled t-shirts, Louis barefoot and Niall with a hat jammed on his head. Harry’s glad no one is around to see them looking so bedraggled, hoping they can get their blazers and braces on before they have to meet the other artists.

Soundcheck goes brilliantly, all of them buzzing as they look out on the giant, empty seating bowl of the ampitheatre. Harry feels breathless trying to count seats, and even more so when he looks the place up on his phone later and sees the seating capacity. It’s more people than all their pub gigs combined, and the nerves are so bad he feels sick.

They get a dressing room, only one for all five of them, and they end up changing together, tossing balled up socks at each other and laughing. Their stylist is a lovely lady called Lou, and she fusses over their hair, brushing makeup onto their faces and straightening their shirts. She makes sure Harry’s hair looks unruly but actually isn’t, spikes Louis’s up around his head, makes Niall and Zayn’s stand up as tall as it will go in the front.

Simon comes in just before they’re set to go on, with a box in his hands. He plunks it down on the table, and they crowd around it.

“Your record, boys,” he says, and they all reach into the box, pulling CD cases from it with awed faces.

“It’s in a real case,” Niall says, dragging his fingers over the plastic. “Not just a cardboard sleeve.”

“There’s a booklet,” Liam says, “with our pictures in it!”

“And lyrics,” Zayn adds, flipping through it.

“This is one of my favorite parts,” Simon says, and lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Where are your sunglasses, Harry, it’s almost time to go on stage?”

“I have yours in my bag, d’you want them?”

“No, I want you to wear them. I want you to have them with you all the time. They’re your trademark.”

Harry isn’t sure how Simon’s sunglasses can be his trademark, but he retrieves them anyway, slips them on as they’re led through the halls toward the stage.

The crowd isn’t sure what to think of them when they first come out, but the girls nearest the stage shriek anyway, and Niall and Louis wave at them as they take their places. Harry does too, and a few girls screech as they flap their hands back, and he grins to himself as he perches on his drum throne. Niall tunes up, turns to Harry with his pick in his teeth.

“Count it off, Haz,” he says, and Harry does.

The show goes great, so well in fact that the local radio stations play their record the next day. It’s the first time they’ve heard the song on anything other than their own station, and it’s exhilarating to hear unfamiliar DJs saying their name on air.

The same thing happens in the next three cities they play, and then one day they’re boarding the bus, ready to head to the next gig, when Simon approaches them, phone held out.

It’s the UK official charts top 100, scrolled down to the 90s.

“Look at 93,” he says, and they do.

It’s “Kiss You” by One Direction.

He walks away as they jump up down, screaming, and Harry is reminded of the time they’d pulled the van over on the way to a gig, kicking up dust on the side of the road because they’d heard their song on the radio for the first time. It was such a short time ago, and here they are with a top 100 song. He wraps his arms tighter around Louis’s waist, Liam’s shoulders, and keeps jumping.

 

The tour becomes a blur after that. City after city, playing the same songs, wearing the same clothes, playing endless hours of video games, falling asleep in their bunks to the steady thrum of the bus wheels on the motorway. And every Sunday they load the new top 100 on someone’s phone and shriek about the number “Kiss You” has climbed to.

Harry loves every second of it. The repetition gets to Louis, makes him a little mad, and that manifests in pranks and jokes and occasional bursts of manic energy. Zayn can’t stand being cooped up with the rest of them for too long, and takes to wandering off on his own, or staying behind on the bus while they explore a new city. Liam doesn’t like being sedentary for too long, and trains like a madman every chance he gets, doing dozens of push-ups in the back of the bus while the rest of them nap. Niall is pretty laid back about everything, but there are days he’s unusually quiet and needs a little more cuddling to put the smile back on his face.

Harry just enjoys himself. He loves the noise of the crowd, the constant go-go-go. He loves the blisters that are forming at the base of his fingers from playing hard nearly every night, and the way the soles of his boots are getting worn down from the drum pedals. He loves his bunk, even if he has to curl his long legs up to his chest and wakes up every morning with a backache, because he can hear Louis snoring in the bunk below and Niall mumbling to himself across the way, and even the quiet sounds of Liam and Zayn’s slow, even breathing makes him feel warm and comfortable.

Their last show is in London, and it’s the biggest crowd they’ve played to yet. They’re starting to see signs pop up in the crowd during their set, signs made just for them, and more and more people are getting to the arenas early enough to see them. People are even learning the words and singing along.

Tonight’s show is the best of the tour, and Harry feels giddy behind the kit, twirling his sticks with his sunglasses on, reveling in the wave of noise that rolls over them every time they end a song. When they’re done they step out to the edge of the stage, toss picks and sticks to the grasping hands, and wave to the jumping, screaming crowd.

It’s the last night, and Harry had gone into it thinking he’d be sad about the tour ending. But the performance high is particularly strong, and they’re all mental in the dressing room after, shouting over each other and wrestling, wrinkling up their clothes without worrying about the wrath of their stylist, because she won’t have to press them for a show the next day.

“That was incredible,” Niall says, breathless, clutching at Liam’s forearm where it’s pressed across his throat. Niall’s got Louis’s shirt clutched in two fists, and Harry and Zayn stop playfully shoving each other to look over.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and they all whoop, breaking apart and laughing.

They don’t have to be back on the bus after the show, and it’s weird piling into a taxi instead, Louis half on Harry’s, half on Liam’s lap in the backseat while Zayn rides up front. They all crash at Zayn’s, because no one wants to go back to their own flats yet, and because they have a band meeting with Simon the next day anyway.

Simon lets them chatter about tour for about three minutes after they troop into his office, bedraggled and wearing each others’ clothing because they’d forgotten which shirts belong to who. Then he cuts them off with a hand and says, “Have any of you been to California?”

There’s dead silence, and one by one they each shake their heads. Harry’s never been to the States, and he doesn’t think anyone else has either.

“Well, that’s about to change,” Simon says. “I know tour just ended, but the work has just begun. Were you aware that ‘Kiss You’ is the fastest rising single in SyCo history?”

“You’re kidding,” Louis says, and Harry seconds that sentiment wholeheartedly, because that cannot possibly be true. He knows it’s been climbing the charts fairly quickly, but to be the fastest ever? Seems impossible.

“I’m not. You’ll be at number seven this week, lads.”

There’s a moment where they all gape at Simon across the desk, and then Harry says, “Fuck,” and they all explode in noise and motion. Harry ends up in a pile with Niall and Louis, grinning at Louis over Niall’s shoulder. Liam and Zayn are hugging and bouncing a little, and Louis disentangles himself to jump on them, knocking them sideways into a chair. Simon indulges them for a moment and then quiets them down, getting them to settle back into their seats.

“What’re we going to do in California?” Harry asks, still catching his breath. His brain is flooded with images, supplied by memories of movies and television shows, palm trees and celebrities in giant sunglasses wandering streets lined with shops, gridlocked traffic and smog and the Hollywood sign looking over the whole scene. 

“Record another record,” Zayn suggests, and Simon seesaws a hand in the air.

“Eventually,” he says. “First we have to do some press, a little media tour. I’ve got you scheduled for some television appearances. The UK charts are impressive but we want to see how your single will fare on the US charts. ”

They all gasp, and Harry feels a rush of anxiety, excitement overlayed on top of it, his nerves all tingling.

“And how would you like to be in a movie?”

“A movie?” Niall says, and looks around at them with wide eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. Let’s get you out there first, and then we’ll go over the schedule. There will be some radio gigs as well, acoustic sets, things like that. And,” he pauses, for dramatic effect Harry thinks, and it works because they’re all on the edges of their seats, “we’re going to film your first music video.”

 

They go out for lunch after the meeting, wandering into a cafe like zombies, still stunned. Harry passes out menus and waits for someone else to say something. Zayn is deep in thought, not even reading his menu but scribbling in his ever-present notebook, and Louis is half-watching him, half-grinning at the table. Liam seems calm, because he almost always seems calm, while Niall fiddles with the cutlery, looking around the cafe like he’s searching for a waiter.

“So,” Harry says, after they get their water glasses filled and let the waiter know they need a minute to order. “California.”

Louis makes a noise like a snort, and then starts laughing, like he can’t help himself, leaning over his arms, folded on the table. Liam starts up next, and he looks so startled by the sounds coming out of his mouth that it sets Zayn off. Niall glances over at Harry, alarmed by the hysterics, maybe, and it surprises a bark of laughter out of Harry.

And then they’re all off, crying with laughter. Harry covers his mouth to keep the volume down, but he can’t stop, because it’s all so ludicrous and fast, and it’s a little scary but mostly it’s so exciting, and things like this …

“Things like this don’t happen to people like us,” he says, voice croaky from laughter.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll all have been a dream,” Louis agrees, wiping his eyes.

“It’s going to be a lot of hard work,” Liam says, solemn even though he’s still grinning, and Zayn nods.

“But fun, too, yeah?” Niall asks, and Louis nods.

“We’ll make it fun. Even if they work us to the bone. We’ll make a pact. No matter how tired we are or what they make us do, we’ll still have fun.”

He holds out his hand over the table, and Niall lays his on top immediately. Harry goes next, then Liam, and Zayn adds his last.

“California, here we come,” Harry says, and then they pull apart to place their orders.

 

They get picked up the day of their flight by a van with a professional driver, and there’s a very burly man in the front seat who introduces himself as Paul. He’s security, apparently, and Harry thinks it’s silly that they’ve been assigned security until they get to the airport and he sees the crowd.

They’re in the ticketing area, spread out in clumps, on their phones. Half of them are wearing sunglasses. Harry has his own on, because he’d been instructed by Simon not to take them off in public, but it’s weird to see other people wearing them indoors. Until one girl looks up, sees the band, and then starts shrieking. 

“Shades!” she screams, and it sets off a sort of domino effect. The girls nearest her snap their heads up in unison, and they start screaming, and then every female in earshot starts up, running towards them.

“Holy shit,” Niall says, as Paul steps in front of them and holds out his arms, keeping the girls at bay. They’re all yelling and taking photos with their phones and Harry hears a few more calls of “Shades” as well as the rest of their names, and he’s over the shock of it fast enough to smile and wave, making the girls shriek louder.

Airport security gets involved after a minute, corralling the girls into a manageable line, allowing the boys to walk past to get to the ticketing counter. They reach out their hands for them, and Harry tries to touch as many as he can, grasping fingers and touching palms, hearing girls crying and shouting in their wake.

It’s the weirdest experience of Harry’s life to date, and he looks back as they check in for their flight to see the aftermath, the girls sobbing on each others’ shoulders and grasping each other with shaking hands.

“All that just for seeing us in an airport,” he says, once they’re through security and in the airline’s VIP lounge, sipping tea and staring at each other. Niall seems shaken by the experience, and Louis is giving him a cuddle. Liam shakes his head.

“Did you see the girls crying?” he asks. “Crying over us.”

“Crying over Shades,” Louis says, smirking. “You’ve got a nickname, Harry.”

“They were crying over you as well,” Harry says, blushing. “I heard them calling your name.”

Zayn freaks out a little over the plane, having never been on one before, and his knuckles go white where he’s gripping the armrest when they take off. Louis murmurs to him from one side, Liam from the other, and Harry checks on Niall, slumped against the window, but he’s out cold already, hood pulled up over his face.

The plane is rather cold, even through Harry’s three layers. Niall curls further into himself as the flight progresses, and Louis starts sniffling somewhere over the ocean. Zayn sends him off to the loo for tissues, going back to the hushed conversation he’s been holding with Liam.

Harry gets up as well, to hunt for a blanket for Louis, and maybe a cup of tea. He gets both from a flight attendant near the front of the plane, and then bumps into Louis coming out of the tiny plane toilet when he makes his way back down the aisle.

“Sorry,” Louis says, and he sounds congested already, holding a tissue up to his nose.

“I got you tea,” Harry says, holding the paper cup aloft. “And a blanket.”

“You did?” Louis’s eyes are glassy, and Harry wonders how long he hasn’t been feeling well, if he already looks this sick.

“You should get some sleep. I wonder if there’s an empty pair of seats somewhere that you could lie down.”

He asks the flight attendant who’d just given him the blanket, and she skims her paperwork, finds a row where there’s a pair of empty seats, a couple that’d missed their connection apparently. Harry feels bad for them for a brief moment, then ushers Louis down the aisle and makes him sip the tea, then lie down across the seats. “I’ll feel better once we land somewhere warm, I’m sure,” Louis says, voice thick, his eyes already closing.

“Just sleep,” Harry says, and tucks the blanket around him. He feels a rush of fondness, protectiveness, looking down at the sweep of Louis’s eyelashes against his cheeks, and then backs away. Louis is Zayn’s boyfriend, and even if Harry can’t deny that he’s attracted to Louis, he definitely shouldn’t be the one taking care of him.

Guilt lodging in his throat he goes back to his row, slouches into Louis’s vacated seat.

“Louis isn’t feeling well,” he says to Zayn, who looks up from where his head had been ducked close to Liam’s, his notebook open between them.

“I know,” he says, watching Harry carefully, like maybe he knows what Harry’s been doing, thinking.

“He’s sleeping a few rows back, the flight attendant found some empty seats. I,” he pauses, guilt creeping up again. “I got him a blanket.”

“That was nice of you,” Zayn says, and he seems to mean it. But he’s still studying Harry with an odd look on his face, head tilted slightly.

“Well,” Harry says. “It’s cold in here,” he finishes lamely, and shrugs. Zayn nods, and Harry unbends from the seat, shuffles across the aisle to his own.

He feels unsettled through the whole flight, and barely sleeps.

 

California is exactly what Harry expected it to be, in some ways. Hot and sunny, palm trees swaying in the breeze. They get picked up in a limo and driven through the city, staring out the windows trying to catch a glimpse of the Hollywood sign. Their hotel is huge, and posh, and they get adjoining suites with multiple bedrooms.

In other ways, Los Angeles is a bit of a shock. It’s hazy with smog, and there are a lot of dirty, rundown neighborhoods with cracked streets amidst the glitz and glitter. The area they’re staying in is nicer, obviously, one of the made-for-TV places where everyone looks like they’ve stepped out of a magazine, but they see some of the other areas when they’re being shuttled around for radio interviews.

The radio interviews have the same feel; some of them are amazing and some of them are not so much.

One in particular is awful, the DJ can’t get their names straight (he calls Louis “Lewis” and Niall “Neil”) and clearly doesn’t care about them about them at all. They’d gotten up at the crack of dawn to make it in time for the morning show, and were then plunked down behind a pane of glass and asked a few inane questions about how they’re liking Los Angeles before they were waved off, basically dismissed.

“That was ridiculous,” Zayn says as they pile back into the van they’d been driven around in. “What a waste of time.”

Harry agrees, partially, because it’s hard to see the merit in a one minute interview, but it’s still radio play and exposure, so he keeps his mouth, only pitching in opinions on the DJ himself when Louis mutters, “Lewis,” under his breath and snorts, arms crossed.

Zayn goes straight to the rooms when they get back to the hotel.

“He’s really upset about that interview,” Niall says, and then turns to Harry. “Wanna go see if they’re still serving breakfast?”

“I’m going to head up, too,” Louis says.

“Are you still not feeling well?” Harry asks, and Louis grimaces, shrugs.

“Not quite 100% yet.”

“I’ll have them send up some orange juice, maybe? And tea?”

Louis smiles, a small, soft curve of his mouth that makes Harry feel warm all over. “Yeah, that would be nice,” he says, and then turns to head up.

Harry, Liam, and Niall head for the restaurant, and the breakfast buffet is still up, so they get a table. Niall is watching Harry with his eyes narrowed, and when Harry goes to follow Liam to the buffet Niall grabs his elbow.

“What?” Harry says, and Niall tugs him back down into his chair.

“You’re an idiot,” Niall says, and Harry pulls back, affronted. “Why are you taking care of Louis? You’re not his boyfriend.”

Harry frowns, his stomach plummeting into his boots. “I’m not,” he starts, sputtering a little, “well of course I know that. But he’s not feeling well, and - “

“Bullshit,” Niall says, and it’s not unkind, but it’s still rather blunt. Harry twists his fingers together.

“I just wanted - “

“Bullshit,” Niall says again, and lays a hand on Harry’s arm. “Look, mate, I’m just saying be careful. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed or not, but you probably don’t want them to.”

Liam clears his throat behind them and they both swivel their heads, Niall jerking his hand back. Harry has no idea how long Liam’s been standing there, but he’s smiling in an odd way, like he’s trying not to. “Aren’t you going to eat?” is all he says, and slides into his seat, plate full of eggs and rashers of bacon, and Niall nods, getting up.

Harry still swings by the hostess station and asks them to send orange juice and tea up to Louis’s room, and he adds on an order of chicken soup as well.

 

The rest of their radio interviews go smoothly, and Louis is thankfully recovered by the time they start doing acoustic performances on air. Harry feels a little out of sorts without his drums, but he taps his knees and sings his harmonies, sharing a microphone with Louis because he doesn’t have his instrument along either.

After the radio tour is over they have the television appearances, and Simon flies in. He’s got a “house in the hills,” something Paul says as snootily as possible to make the boys laugh. He’s been trying to do that more and more, Harry notices, as the strain of the press sets in.

They’ve been spending less time with each other, all as a group. Niall goes off on his own, to sightsee and make random friends. Liam goes over to Zayn’s room a lot, presumably to help him write new songs. Louis trades off, coming over to Harry’s, and they watch crap American telly and tease each other for hours on end, bantering back and forth.

It’s odd, Harry thinks, the way they’ve split themselves, because it’s not how he would’ve paired or grouped them if pressed. Not that he’s complaining. He loves Louis’s company.

It’s just that he may like it too much.

He definitely gets used to it, and misses him when he’s gone, because Niall is a good laugh but Harry isn’t quite as comfortable with him, or any of the other lads, as he is with Louis.

 

The day of their first TV taping dawns bright and hot, the sun a glaring ball of white light in the pale blue sky. Harry wanders out to the pool after breakfast, thankful that a key card is necessary to get through the gate when the area is blessedly shrieking-girl free. He lays out in a lounge chair and thinks back on the past few months.

It’s been like a rollercoaster, almost. They started out on the curvy bit that isn’t too fast or scary, clacking along with their pub gigs and garage practices, their home-recorded album. Then they started the ascending the nearly vertical part of the track, the part where you get really breathless and tingly with anticipation.

At the top is that pause, where you kind of hang on a precipice, debating with yourself whether you should cling on tight or throw up your hands, squeeze your eyes closed or keep them open to watch what happens next.

That’s the bit Harry thinks they’re on now, like they might be about to drop. He wonders if there’s another section of track that veers upward at the other end of the fall.

Louis comes to get him when it’s time to go, and he shields his eyes with his hand, looking around at the nearly empty pool area, seeming to linger over Harry’s bare chest.

“Almost wish we could stay out here,” Louis says, even though he’s wearing way too many layers for the weather.

“Nervous?” Harry asks, gathering his things.

“No,” Louis says, and tilts his head. His face is blank, almost, save the quirk of his mouth. “Just feels like something’s about to change. Not sure if it’s good or bad.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he thinks, _maybe now’s the time to throw my hands up_. He shrugs instead, and flicks out at Louis with his towel. “Gonna be good, of course,” he says, and he means it.

 

They go through hair and makeup in two shifts, and Harry sits between Liam and Niall while his hair is fussed with and foundation is sponged onto his face. They’re quiet, for the most part, nervous if Niall’s bouncing leg and Liam’s distracted humming is anything to go by. Harry’s mostly excited, ready for the cameras and the lights and the studio audience.

They get fancier outfits than usual, Harry in an actual suit. Liam’s wearing a waistcoat and Niall’s got trousers on that fit for once, and they’re still gaping at themselves in the mirror when Louis and Zayn come in.

Harry whistles when he catches sight of them in the mirror, Zayn in a leather jacket and Louis in a blazer with the sleeves rolled up, their hair in matching quiffs. Zayn looks great as usual, with his jaw that could cut glass and his bedroom eyes, but Louis.

Louis takes Harry’s breath away.

He makes a joke of it, reaches out to straighten Louis’s lapels when he comes closer, winking exaggeratedly. “Tomlinson, you’re gorgeous,” he says, and laughs.

No one laughs with him. Zayn and Liam share a look that makes Harry’s heart sink into his stomach. Louis does smile, a quick upturn of his lips, and says, “Thanks.”

The mood is weird when they go out to play, but they seem to shake it off once the cameras are rolling, and they play so well Harry feels like he’s floating after. He barely hears the host when he starts asking them questions, but he tunes in in time to hear him ask about two of the band members dating.

“Uh,” Zayn says, and looks at Liam, which is odd enough. But it’s not odder than him saying, “No, no one’s dating,” because he and Louis’s hadn’t been hiding before, why would they now.

Unless that’s why Louis was weird before they came onstage. Maybe they were told to hide things?

Harry answers his question, “Are those prescription, Shades?” with a cheeky smile and his usual answer, but he’s on autopilot.

Niall beats him to the punch once they’re all back in the green room, rounding on Zayn and saying, “What happened?”

Zayn looks at Liam, again, and then to Louis, who waves his hand. “Louis and I broke up,” Zayn says.

Harry’s knees nearly buckle, and he drops onto a seat. Thankfully Niall seems just as floored, jaw dropping open.

“What?”

“It’s been coming for awhile,” Louis says, like he’s consoling Niall, but his eyes swing to meet Harry’s. Harry feels hope swell in his chest, but he squashes it. He doesn’t want to be a rebound.

“Holy shit,” Niall says, and Harry nods his agreement. Liam is being strangely quiet, staring at the floor, and Harry catches Zayn peeking over at him more than once.

“It’s for the best,” Zayn says, and Louis pats Niall’s shoulder. “It doesn’t change anything. In fact, this is how we plan on guaranteeing that nothing changes.”

Harry doesn’t quite get that, but he figures they know best, and lets it go.

 

Louis gets his own room, and stays to himself when they’re not scheduled for appearances. A couple more television performances and they’re done, set to fly back home where they’ll start working on their next record. Zayn’s showed them all what he and Liam have been scrawling in Zayn’s notebook, and it’s good; lyrics and melodies that are more mature than what they’d been playing. Harry’s excited to help make them songs.

The night before their flight home the phone in the suite Harry’s sharing with Niall and Liam rings, and Harry picks it up.

“Come to mine,” Louis says, cutting off Harry’s hello.

Harry goes, his heart in his throat. There’s been something between them since Louis and Zayn broke up, even before that if Harry is honest. There might’ve been something as far back as their first band, but Harry had been too young and stupid to recognize it. He wonders if, and hopes that, Louis is starting to figure out the same.

The door is open before Harry’s even done knocking, and Louis has a terrible case of bedhead, t-shirt collar stretched so wide it’s slipping off one shoulder. He waves Harry in, and then stands with his back against the closed door for a moment, watching.

Harry’s just about to speak, to ask why he called, when Louis propels himself forward, gets up on tiptoes just before he crashes into Harry’s chest, and presses their mouths together.

It’s a great first kiss; they slot together perfectly, Harry’s hands spreading wide over Louis’s back to keep him on his toes, Louis’s fingers curling around Harry’s biceps. Their lips slide together, Louis’s warm and soft, and Louis makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s surprised, but in a good way.

They break apart after a long moment, and Harry just blinks down at him, mouth still open slightly. Louis gives a breathless sort of laugh.

“I think we maybe should’ve done that a long time ago,” he says, and Harry laughs too, surprised.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, and Louis grins, more like a smirk, going coy as he slides one hand up and into Harry’s hair.

“Yeah,” he says, and leans up again.

 

They kiss for what seems like ages, each one getting hotter and deeper. Louis nudges Harry back towards the bed but Harry pulls up just short, pushes Louis away by the shoulders.

“I don’t want to be a rebound,” he says, and Louis tilts his head, confused. “You know, warming your suddenly cold bed?”

Louis rolls his eyes and shoves his hands against Harry’s chest, making him bounce backwards on the mattress. “You git,” he says, and crawls up after him. “Anyone with two eyes could see Zayn and Liam were meant to be together. And anyone with half a brain could see the same about us. Trust me, this is how it was supposed to happen.”

Harry gapes at him, but Louis is focused on the buttons of Harry’s shirt, slipping them through their holes one by one.

“I’ve been a bit behind, haven’t I?” he asks, and Louis looks up, grinning.

“Just a bit, love.”

Harry grins back, lets it curl slow and promising across his mouth. “Better catch me up then,” he says, and Louis ducks down for a quick kiss before sitting back, knees on either side of Harry’s hips.

Louis tells Harry the whole story, about how he’d noticed Zayn and Liam getting closer, how he’d been feeling things for Harry, how it all came to a head the day they taped their first TV performance. How there hadn’t been any yelling, but Louis did cry a little, and how Louis had spent the days after talking to his mum on the phone and thinking, making sure he was really sure.

“And you’re sure?”

“Harry, didn’t we already decide you’d stop being an idiot?”

Harry laughs, and digs his fingers into Louis’s thighs, and Louis spreads Harry’s shirt open with the edges of his hands, palms skimming skin as it’s revealed. “Sorry,” Harry says, and the words breaks on a gasp when Louis rubs the pads of his fingers over one of Harry’s nipples. “I’ll stop.”

“Good,” Louis says, and shuffles backwards on his knees until he can reach the button and zip of Harry’s jeans. “All caught up now?”

“I think so,” Harry says, and then reaches out to grab Louis’s wrist. “Wait. Just. Zayn?”

Louis frowns, shakes his head, mutters, “Didn’t want to hear his name in the bedroom again.”

“Come on, Lou. He’s alright?”

“He’s probably already naked with Liam, now can I please finish undressing you?”

Harry takes his hand back and mimes zipping his lip, the last of his guilt and apprehension fading away under Louis’s hands and the heat of the eyes.

They help each other out of their clothes, hands tangling together in the waistbands of trousers and pants and the sleeves of shirts, and finally they’re both naked, flush together on their sides, chests pressed together. Louis licks over Harry’s jaw, up to the sensitive spot under his earlobe, and then bites, making Harry’s back arch.

Louis pushes Harry over onto the mattress, heels of his hands skating over Harry’s collarbones and up over his shoulders as his head moves down, tongue dragging against Harry’s skin. He alternates licking and biting and sucking, making Harry gasp and shiver and buck his hips.

His path meanders a little but it’s clear where the destination is, and Harry’s muscles go tight with anticipation, eyes tracking every movement of Louis’s head. He feels shot through with fire when Louis finally hits his mark, lips wrapping around the head of Harry’s cock and sliding down, taking him in nearly to the root all in one go.

Harry’s whole body clenches, fingers twisted in the sheets and toes curled against the backs of Louis’s thighs, his spine locked in a curve up of of the mattress. Louis doesn’t let up, bobbing his head and making it slick, noises obscene in the otherwise quiet room, and it’s so much hotter because of them. Harry can barely stand it, the way it sounds and the way it feels, the wet suction around him and Louis’s hand circled tight at the base, his other pressing warm under Harry’s navel.

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry groans, because he’s careening towards the edge at breakneck speed, and he wants to make it last, wants to draw it out, but Louis drags his hand down from Harry’s stomach to his balls, rolling them in his palm before sliding a finger back further, pressing dry against Harry’s hole, and Harry barely has time to reach for Louis’s head, warning him, before he comes.

Louis is leaning over him, grinning and licking his lips, satisfied, when Harry can pry his eyes open again. He’s still shivering through the very end of his orgasm, nerve endings alight, and Louis sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth, bites down gently.

“That was good then?” he asks, and then slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth, making it impossible to answer. Harry just nods instead, bumping their noses together, and kisses Louis back the best he can while still regaining full use of his limbs.

“How can I repay you,” he asks when Louis lets him come up for air. Louis pulls back, makes a show of considering it.

“In kind,” Louis says finally, and grins when Harry flips him onto his back.

Harry takes his time with Louis as well, even though he’s already hard and curving up over his belly. He wants to learn what Louis likes, where he likes to be touched, so he touches everywhere he can, spreading his hands out over Louis’s body to see how much he can cover at one time.

His palms span Louis’s ribs, and Harry notes the way Louis’s breath seems to stutter in his chest, how it goes ragged when Harry slides them down to Louis’s hips. His thumbs press just under Louis’s hipbones, and Louis seems to move up into the pressure so Harry digs in harder. Louis groans, and Harry grins, ducking his head down to bite over the same spot.

“Get on with it,” Louis grumps, but he’s breathless and starting to move against the sheets, slow rolls of his hips, spine curving. “I’ve been wanting your mouth on me for ages.”

That’s enough to make Harry groan, make his dick twitch, even if it can’t get hard again so soon.

“Thought about it, have you?”

Louis gets a fistful of Harry’s hair, tugs gently until Harry looks up to meet his eyes. “All the time,” he says, and his voice is sandpaper-rough, his eyes hot. Harry wets his lips and Louis’s eyes go hotter, and then Harry lowers his mouth and takes Louis in.

He goes slower than Louis had, because he really wants to draw this one out, and the noises Louis makes are too good to want to stop them. He catalogs each one, and what caused it, and files the knowledge away. He has a feeling he’ll be using this newfound knowledge a lot in the future.

Louis is louder than Harry, more expressive, and Harry loves that, the sounds that Louis can’t seem to help making, groans dragging out of his throat and Harry’s name punctuating long strings of curses. Harry hollows his cheeks and sucks a little harder, listening for the way Louis’s voice goes thready and feeling his thighs tense under Harry’s hands.

When Louis comes his body curls up like he’s been punched, shoulders lifting off the bed and stomach tensing, and Harry swallows, licks up anything he’s missed, and touches all the places Louis is quivering after - the muscles of his thighs, his abdomen, his mouth.

“You were right,” Harry says, when they’ve tangled themselves up in each other and the sheets and their eyes are slipping closed.

“About what?” Louis murmurs, tucking his head under Harry’s chin, his breath puffing over Harry’s neck.

“We should’ve done that a long time ago.”

 

Harry wakes up content, Louis wrapped around him like a blanket. The closer they get to having to pack up and leave the hotel, though, the more anxious Harry gets. It’s like the first television performance all over, that rollercoaster feeling, teetering on the edge of the drop and not knowing what happens after.

When they all meet in the lobby, ready to get back in a van and head towards the airport, everyone looks wary, cautious. Liam and Zayn are standing next to each other, arms at their sides, and they were either just holding hands or just about to, from the guilty looks on their faces. Harry can’t think of anything to say to put them at ease, and he hates the way Niall is looking between them and Louis like someone’s about to start yelling.

So Harry reaches out, threads his fingers through Louis’s, and smiles around at all the surprised faces. He nods down at Liam and Zayn’s hands, and Zayn tilts his head, still wary, but reaches out and takes Liam’s hand in his own.

“There,” Harry says, and tugs Louis closer to him. “We’re all good?”

“All good,” Zayn says, and then breaks out in a grin. Niall is the first to laugh, launching himself at Louis and trying to climb onto his back. Louis swats at him, but Harry holds his hands so Niall can get situated. Liam joins in next, taking advantage of Louis’s weakened state to rub his knuckles through Louis’s hair, and Zayn joins in, laughing. Soon they’re just a pile of wrestling bodies, arms and legs flailing everywhere, poking and tickling and laughing until they’re breathless.

If they really were on a rollercoaster, the five of them, Harry’s pretty sure they’d all throw their hands up and scream as the cart dropped, and then laugh together while it coasted through the dip at the bottom and started rising up the other side.

 

There’s a huge crowd of fans waiting for them in the airport on either side of their flights, and they sign autographs and take pictures like they’re used to it, but Harry thinks he never will be. This will always be new and exciting, and he’ll never get tired of the girls shrieking for Shades, or grinning at himself on the screens of iPhones while girls tilt their heads to the exact right angle and snap the picture.

He also doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking over the tops of the the girls heads and seeing the rest of the lads doing the same, Niall with his hair flattened from sleeping on it, Liam’s eyes crinkling in the corners and Zayn’s eyes smoldering at everyone. And Louis, looking up at the exact same time and meeting Harry’s eyes with his own.

He definitely won’t ever be tired of that.


End file.
